Of Salt
by Tashilover
Summary: John has three tattoos. One of them, is a five-pointed star with black flames.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: **Mentions of child abuse

()

There were three tattoos on John's body Sherlock was aware of. A small part of him told him there might be more, but he could only see so much when he caught the occasional flash of flesh when John walked out from the shower, towel around his waist, to his room.

The first tattoo were the initials, RJ, inked on John's right ankle. Harry confirmed the name was Ronny Jeremiah, John's best friend from his childhood. Ronny had died at the age of nineteen from leukemia.

The second tattoo was predictable: _Primum non nocere _was etched on John's bicep.

The third… was something else.

The design of it made Sherlock believe the tattoo was an indiscretion of youth: it was a five pointed star, enclosed in a circle of black flames. Except John had placed the tattoo right over his heart, and it was fairly big. This tattoo meant something to him.

A quick internet search revealed the tattoo to be a protective sigil from the 1400's. Supposedly it was to prevent _demonic possession._

How stupid, Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was bad enough John riddled his body with useless sentiments, but now it was confirmed the man was highly superstitious. Sherlock should spill salt around him, just to see what would happen.

Out of curiosity sake, Sherlock did exactly that once. John only muttered and brushed the salt away with one hand.

Sometimes Sherlock would hog the sidewalk, forcing John to detour under a ladder or cross his path with a black cat. John didn't react to either experiment, but he did squat down to pet said black cat.

After such incidents, Sherlock supposed the tattoo held some sort of personal importance and was not of actual superstition.

But yet, there were a few things Sherlock noticed that made him rethink his original assessment.

First of all, John tended to get twitchy around the time of the full moon. Not exactly paranoia; but John was on guard during those nights.

Secondly, Sherlock knew very well John wasn't a religious man. Many doctors aren't, but many military men were, and that alone blurred Sherlock's answer. John kept an old rosary in his room, along with a small silver cross.

Presents, Sherlock supposed.

The strangest of all was when Sherlock and John were present during a cross examination of murderer.

Sherlock tended to stay away from rape and child abuse cases. The perpetrator were usually always the father or uncle or close friend and despite what Sally said about him, such cases did leave a black mark on Sherlock's soul.

This was one case he could not ignore as the body count of children began to rise. So here he was, with John, watching the murderer spill his guts out to Lestrade of all his deeds.

And he was laughing. "Oh, you should've heard them scream! Mommy! Daddy! Help me! Oh, so pathetic! God, I love to hear them beg!"

Lord, Sherlock did not need to be here to listen to this. They already had the guy, they were just waiting on the lawyer to show up. Sherlock already knew how the man killed those children, he didn't need to listen to the parts that happened in between.

Just as Sherlock turned to leave, John, who hadn't spoken during the entire time, suddenly hissed out, "Christo."

It wasn't a question but he clearly meant for the word to get some kind of reaction. When nothing happened and everyone gave him a confused look, he coughed awkwardly into his fist, shrugged, and continued his silence.

It might've been an accident. It was probably a curse word or a jumbled mess of collected thoughts spoken out loud. But John wasn't the type of man to suddenly burst out random syllables in a room with a serial killer.

Another internet search revealed 'Christo' meant 'Christ' in Latin.

And John certainly wasn't the type of man to sprout random Latin religious phrases in a room with a serial killer.

()

"Hello."

Sherlock nearly dropped his flask in surprise. Which would be unfortunate because it contained highly corrosive acid and he didn't want to explain why there was a five foot hole on the floor to Mrs. Hudson. He still had yet to tell her about the giant ash stain on kitchen ceiling.

There was a man standing in his living room.

Sherlock never heard the front door open, never heard padded feet come into the flat. "Hello," Sherlock greeted back slowly, placing the flask down on the kitchen table. He glanced back at the front door. Still closed, still locked.

"Is John Watson here?" The man asked, his voice was so unnaturally deep Sherlock thought he was faking it. American, late thirties, cheap tailored suit and tan overcoat. A professional man in a not-so-professional job, perhaps in advertisement?

"No," Sherlock said. Despite all his deductions, the nagging feeling at the back of his head was telling him he was wrong, wrong, wrong. "He's at the hospital, working."

"Do you know when he'll be back? I need to talk to him."

"May I ask who you are?"

"I'm-" the man suddenly paused, thinking. "I'm… Bobby."

"You just lied to me."

"No I didn't."

Sherlock nearly giggled at the blatantly bad lying. Nobody was that bad, not even children. "You could wait. I'm sure he'll be back soon."

'Bobby' nodded just once. Without prompt he sat down on John's favorite chair (coincidence, maybe?), readjusted his trench coat over his knees, chose a wall and just stared at it.

It's not boredom, nor is it social insecurity. There was no fidgeting in his hands, no downward cast of eyes. Bobby was confident in himself, just chose to stare because the wall was there. An indication of mild autism?

It irked Sherlock to realize he can't read this man. His clothes, hair, and shoes say one this, but his actions and small mannerism say another. There was something artificial about him that made the hairs on Sherlock's arm stand up.

Not in excitement, in apprehension. It felt as if the other shoe was going to drop soon and Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to be here when it happened. He kept telling himself that it was silly for such emotion, and yet every time he glanced over to Bobby, his arms tingled uncomfortably.

Suddenly he couldn't work. Not with this anomaly in his flat.

What questions could he ask that wouldn't result in a lie? The man (thing?) already lied about his name, had shown he was ready to lie more if needed.

So Sherlock did what he did best. He pushed. "What's your real name?"

Bobby turned to look at him, gaze so strong Sherlock had to fight the urge to flinch. His own instincts were screaming at him and Sherlock kept them at bay. He was not going to bow down to them.

"Bobby," said the man again, this time with a bit more confidence.

"Still lying."

"Yes, I suppose I am. You may be very intelligent, Sherlock Holmes, but you will never deduce me."

Oh ho! A challenge? Fine then. "John has talked to you about me."

"No," Bobby said, turning away as if bored with him. "I have not talked to John in five years."

Truth. "Then why are you here?"

"To talk to him." Bobby said as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

This wasn't going to get him nowhere. Either this man was brilliant- more than Sherlock will ever be- or he was truly ignorant. Sherlock was not going to get much until John got here.

And as if on cue, the familiar steps of John Watson were heard.

"Sherlock," the good doctor cried from downstairs. "I got Italian for dinner," he began to climb the stairs, his steps heavy. "It's from this new place that just opened-"

They always kept the door to their flat opened because Mrs. Hudson loved popping her head in every so often. It also allowed to Sherlock hear the footsteps better on the stairs and it was better if Lestrade ever decided to visit unexpectedly.

John was all smiles when he entered the flat. The moment he caught sight of Bobby, the Styrofoam containers of food he held fell out of his hands and splattered onto the ground without care. "Castiel," he breathed.

His mouth twitched for a smile, but kept its shocked gape. 'Castiel' rose from the chair. "Hello, John."

"Jesus Christ," John said, suddenly stepping forward, hand outstretched for a shake. "It's good to see you again."

"Yes, it's been too long." Castiel's eyes raked John's face. "You look old."

"Fuck you," John said with a grin. "Has Dean taught you nothing? Five years and-"

John suddenly stopped, realizing Sherlock was still in the room, watching them. John cut himself off, coughed, and said, "Um, it's probably best if we talked in my room."

No explanation, no introductions. As they passed Sherlock to get to the stairs that will lead them to John's room, John shook his head once at him.

'Do not follow me' was what it said.

Of course not, Sherlock nearly scowled at him. At least, he wasn't going to follow so blatantly obvious. He was going to wait a minute or two, then follow up the stairs. In the meantime, Sherlock whipped out his phone and googled 'Castiel.'

It was an unusual name, most likely a code name, and a general search should give results.

There wasn't much. "Castiel," said one generic website. "Angel of Thursday." And that was it.

Without a proper last name, there wasn't much Sherlock can go on. This wasn't the first time one of John's old friends visited the flat without warning, snatching the good doctor away for drinks and nostalgic remembrance.

But this was the first time John refused to introduce his friend to Sherlock.

Two minutes had already passed and curiosity gnawed on him. In his own room, John was not a light footer. He'd often stomped, unintentionally slammed his dresser drawers, refused to step over the squeaky boards. At the moment, no noise was heard from his room.

Something was wrong.

Sherlock couldn't explain it. No noise was much, much worse than screaming. Silence gave him nothing to deduce, nothing to rationalize.

At three minutes, he had enough. Privacy be damned.

Sherlock stomped up the steps, not caring the sounds he was making. It sounded good in his ears, and he didn't care if it meant he was announcing his approach to John. It was his fault for being too quiet.

"John?" Sherlock stopped right at the door. He waited to hear the familiar footsteps. "John, open up, I need to talk to you."

Nothing. John wouldn't be that petty and ignore him.

Sherlock tried the doorknob. Eyebrows raised when it turned easily.

Of all the scenarios that ran through his head, this was not one of them. John's room was empty.

More than empty, abandoned.

John had emptied his drawers, took clothes and socks and spare shoes. His duffle bag was gone, as well as his gun. He'd left behind his laptop, his wallet, spare cash, and his mobile.

John was gone. And all evidence pointed that he wasn't coming back.

()

"Is this the man you saw at the flat?"

Mycroft handed him a single photograph. Sherlock knew his brother probably had a lot more than a single damn picture but was withholding it from him. Sherlock doesn't know if it was because of privacy laws (highly unlikely) or Mycroft wanted confirmation before dropping the metaphorical bomb.

The photo was clearly a driver license picture. Castiel was younger in the photo. His hair was combed in one direction, wore a blue flannel shirt and he was smiling lightly. He looked nothing like the disheveled man at the flat. "This is him," Sherlock confirmed.

"Jimmy Novak," Mycroft then announced with a sigh. He dropped an extensive file down in front of Sherlock. "Disappeared from his home nearly eight years ago. Wife said prior to his disappearance, Jimmy was expressing a possible mental breakdown. He was having hallucinations; kept saying he was talking to an angel of the Lord."

That explained the name Castiel. Mycroft continued. "Besides a few speeding tickets, Jimmy had no prior criminal record. Paid his taxes, went to Church on Sunday, and helped his elderly neighbor take out her trash."

"And after?"

"He apparently became partners with a Mr. Sam and Dean Winchester."

Sherlock frowned at the names. They were familiar… "Winchester. They're on the FBI's most wanted list."

Sherlock only checked the FBI website once a month. The most wanted list rarely changed and most of the criminals were either computer hackers that cost the American government millions of dollars or war lords that were near impossible to touch. The Winchesters were an unusual case as their crimes were scattered across the North American Continent. Their crimes consisted of murder, kidnapping, weapons dealing, smuggling, assault, breaking and entering, grave robbing, grave desecration, arson, and mild terrorism.

Sherlock had been rather interested in hunting them down. The Winchesters were notorious escape artist and it sounded like quite the challenge Sherlock had been hoping for. But just as he was making plans to travel to America, Sherlock heard the Winchesters died when a gas explosion took down a whole police station.

"Since meeting the Winchesters, Jimmy has racked up quite the body count himself," Mycroft continued. "There has been rumors he's been seen as far as China."

"What does John have to do with him? With the Winchesters?"

"That's something you're going have to ask for yourself," Mycroft said as he dropped one more photograph. It was a security cam still.

In the picture, Sam and Dean Winchester walked down an unknown hallway. They each held a shotgun and had extra ammo strapped around their waist. Behind them was Jimmy/Castiel. He held no weapon and wore the same clothes when Sherlock first met him.

Behind Castiel, barely seen through the grainy image, was John. His head was slightly turned like he was looking over his shoulder. In his own hands he held a gun- not his own- and in the other, a machete.

Suddenly the conversation with Harry made a lot more sense. When explained John had gone missing, Harry simply huffed and said, "John's known to do that. Did you know he never told me he was joining the army? Found that out when he was deployed."

Harry's sin was drinking. John's sin was the inability to tell his family of his coming and goings. Sherlock knew John had spent two years in America before college. "Road trip," John explained with a little wry smile. Sherlock never bothered to ask about his adventures because, frankly, it sounded boring.

Now Sherlock knew John spent two years in America with Sam and Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's American accent was just as shit now, as it was when he first tried it out. The natural tones of his French ancestry made it next to impossible for him to erase the accent from his speech. The best he could do was fake a Southern accent, and hoped nobody from the South called him out on it.

It was more than keeping under the FBI's radar as Sherlock trapeze across the continental US. He learned very quickly that Sam and Dean had allies in nearly every state. It was obvious many of these allies held no love for them, but they were loyal nonetheless. Every single one of them were expert liars.

They were also expert marksmen, proficient in either Latin or Greek, and every single one of them hid a knife on their person. Sherlock began suspecting they were all part of a larger gang, like the Hell's Angels, but these men and women were not criminals. They acted more like bounty hunters.

Hunting _what _exactly? If Sherlock had more time he would investigate except the Winchesters bounced around the continent almost as easy as breathing. It irritated Sherlock when he got reports from Mycroft telling him Sam and Dean were seen in Nevada one day, then the next day they were seen in Maryland.

And it was only Sam and Dean. Not Castiel, and certainly not John.

In the past, Sherlock had chastised the American police for their inability to catch Sam and Dean. Both men were tall, handsome, and drove around in a black, 1967 Chevy Impala. It should've been quite easy to single them out, regardless of the massive landscape.

And yet, Sherlock found, despite all his abilities, he was having a hell of time tracking their movements. Mycroft wouldn't send him plain rumors. If the Winchesters were seen in Maryland, then they were in Maryland.

In a small hotel room in Oregon, Sherlock had taped to his wall a giant map of the United States. Pins of various colors dotted the landscape while strings connected them all. It took Sherlock only a day to figure out what the Winchesters were after in each state.

It wasn't money, or drugs, or weapons that motivated the Winchesters. There was always a pattern and it baffled Sherlock how none of the FBI picked up on this.

Sam and Dean never stayed in a city or town any longer than a day or two. Longer than that, then it was an indication for something else. And it was always death.

Sherlock read the police reports and newspapers. A healthy child would suddenly dropped dead the next day from heart failure. Cows are found mutilated. Husbands suddenly turn on their wives or a string of mothers suddenly drown their children.

The moment the Winchesters rolled into town, the odd deaths _stop._

Yet there were contradictions. Sam and Dean don't leave each state with a clean conscious. There was always one last body left behind. Sometimes the body was found mutilated, head taken off, or burnt to a crisp. Other times there was no body, just a missing persons poster that's taken down a few months later.

Sherlock doesn't know what to make of this. John wasn't an idiot, despite how many times Sherlock called him that. The doctor's morals were unshakable and would not dare associate himself with murderers. But it seems no matter where the Winchesters went, a trial of bodies were found in their wake.

And if Sherlock was right in his estimate, over a hundred murders have been committed by them.

That shouldn't have sent a tingle up Sherlock's spine, but it did.

There had to be a safe house, Sherlock decided very early into his investigation. All serial killers had them. Even expert killers like the Winchesters would get antsy, wanting a place to lay low for a while and rest.

That was when Sherlock began methodically tracing the Winchester's route. The pins, the colored strings, all pointed to one small place in South Dakota.


	3. Chapter 3

The town of Sioux Falls was small enough for the locals to know each other almost on a personal level, yet large enough to let go the fear of outsiders coming upon their land. Sherlock had more than once been chased out of a small town for asking too many 'inappropriate' questions.

It doesn't take much to learn where the safe house was located at. Talking to the adults were useless, but children provided so much information without prompt. "The old drunk near the edge of town," one small blonde girl had told him. She was only seven and already she was using words like, 'drunk.' "The scrap yard. That's where I've seen a black car."

Sherlock has never driven so much in his life. How can the Winchesters keep doing this, day after day, for years on end? With only each other for company? Sherlock tried to imagine traveling with Mycroft, and every fantasy ended with Sherlock murdering him.

As Sherlock did one loop around the scrap yard, he could see the strategic appeal of the place. The house sat in the middle, surrounded by dozens and dozens of piled, rusted cars. The house could barely be seen from the outside. Behind the scrap yard laid a lush forest.

The scrap yard belonged to a Robert Singer. Widowed, mid-fifties, arrested a few times on public drunkenness, lived in the area for nearly thirty years. The most interesting tidbit? He's been investigated by the FBI at least twice. Been accused of housing fugitives, but evidence has always been circumstance.

Entering the house was shamefully easy.

Either Singer was a stupid man or he was so confident in his home defense to not bother with cameras, dogs, or motion sensitive equipment.

Sherlock was still cautious when he entered the house, making sure the front door wasn't booby-trapped. He closed the door quietly behind him, locking it.

There was a kitchen to his left, which he promptly ignored. A staircase was straight ahead, and a living room to his right. He saw the large bookcase and immediately went towards it.

He stopped as soon as he crossed into the living room. He looked up.

A large detailed drawing was painted on the ceiling. Besides the scorpions and the occasional bits of Latin, Sherlock didn't recognize any of the symbols. He took a picture of it with his phone.

The next hour of searching had proven to be very fruitful. Mr. Robert Singer had very eclectic tastes and if Sherlock wasn't so sure there were bodies buried underneath the scrap yard, he and Singer would have been great friends.

Singer had various skeleton pieces scattered all over his home. He had a large collection of rare books, dating back four hundred years. There were weapons hidden in nearly every crevice where a weapon could be hidden. And in his fridge, sitting next to beer and a plastic-wrapped cheese sandwich, was a jar full of animal blood.

It wasn't until Sherlock noticed the phones did he gasp in surprise. There were four house phones, each one labeled differently.

Home. Police. FBI. CIA.

Sherlock nearly giggled. "So clever!" He said out loud. This! This was how the Winchesters kept escaping! So much made sense right now.

Oh, Sherlock's fingers were itching. He wanted to search more of this room, look for the fake ID badges he knew were hidden somewhere. But he had two more floors to search through and he'd only given himself a strict time to do it.

The upstairs had nothing of interest, other than blankets and spare clothes.

The basement nearly proved the same, a general work space full of tools, and trinkets hanging from various points. It was the giant metal door that caught his attention.

It looked like a door that was fit for a prison: heavy, with a sliding lock and a peep hole. Sherlock pulled the peep hole opened, revealing the inner room empty.

He opened the door with some difficulty. The door was incredibly heavy and though well oiled, Sherlock still needed to dig his heels into the ground to move it.

Inside… was nothing special.

There was a cot, a metal cabinet with more weapons inside and an old weathered poster of a blonde woman in a bikini. High above was a large ceiling fan, illuminating a five pointed star. The whole room was made out of iron and Sherlock made a mental note to check out Singer's financials. To build such a thing must've cost a fortune.

There were traces of blood on the ground. A few drops. Sherlock scrapped them with a pocket knife, dropping the flakes into a small glass vial.


	4. Chapter 4

The blood proved to be… something.

Sherlock pulled back from the microscope, almost disgusted. The blood was definitely human, but there was a strange substance mixed in that it took Sherlock nearly an hour to figure out what.

Sulfur. There was sulfur in the blood.

Why though? Mixing sulfur with the blood would have done nothing. Sherlock had seen Singer's cupboards. The man had much more useful poisons in his home.

Sherlock looked down upon the several photographs he took. Oh yes, Singer and the Winchesters were highly superstitious, weren't they? To them, this wasn't sulfur, it was brimstone.

Still didn't answer how John was involved in all of this.

So it begged the question: Were the Winchesters murderers?

John wouldn't be with them if they were. But Lord, there was so much evidence. There were witness accounts, bodies, video; one woman said Dean Winchester strapped her to a chair and tortured her.

Sherlock was missing something. Something big. The Winchesters and Robert Singer were smart, hellishly smart. When they came into a town, killings stop. So… they kill the true murderer.

Heh, so Sherlock was right. They were bounty hunters.

But why do they kill their bounties, their victims so dramatically? Decapitation, burning them alive… shooting them in the head was quick, painless, and less messy to clean up.

Suddenly Sherlock had the image of John, hacking away at a random man on the ground, blood splattering and chunks of flesh flying.

Sherlock dismissed the image quickly. Even if it was Moriarty, John would never submit the man to such a death.

The detective didn't want to entertain the idea he could be wrong about John.

()

The worst stakeout Sherlock had ever endured was when he was nineteen, forced to sit in a sewer for nearly five hours waiting for a drop-off between two drug cartels. It took a whole week worth of showering to get the stench off his skin.

This was worse.

Waiting for Sam, Dean, or Singer to come back to the house was hell on Earth. Sitting there, in the car, waiting hours and hours for God only knows how long. (Four days, seven hours and fourteen minutes.)

Sherlock had a clue where they might be. Newspapers reported two cases of strange deaths occurring at the moment- strange enough to fit the typical Winchester MO. The only problem was both cases were in opposite directions of each other. Sherlock didn't want to risk missing the Winchesters because he was in another state, following a wild goose chase.

So he sat, in an abandoned car in Singer's junk yard, waiting for someone to come home.

And after four grueling boring days, a van pulled up into Singer's property.

Sherlock was surprised he could still move. A seat spring from his chosen hiding place had dug into his lower back until he was nearly numb from pain. Despite that, he propped himself up with enough space to watch the van pull right up to the porch.

The driver side door opened and Robert Singer stepped out. He was much older looking than the picture the FBI provided.

Singer walked to the back of his van, placed on hand on the door handle. He took a cautionary glance around his property (in which Sherlock ducked) and pulled the back opened. Sherlock looked back up and saw Singer pull a woman out, her hands tied behind her back, and a black bag draped over her head.

Damn! Sherlock had planned to only observe and gather data, but now it was a hostage situation.

No, not a hostage. This woman was most likely going to be tortured, then killed.

Sherlock hurried out of his hiding spot. He stayed low to the ground as he dashed across the yard, coming to the back door near the kitchen. He pulled out his set of pick-locks, and nearly dropped them when a scream echoed from within the house.

"Stop! Stop!" Came the woman's voice.

Sherlock acted quickly. He unlocked the door with quiet precision, opening it slowly to access where the noise was coming from. The living room.

He quietly closed the door and sneaked behind the table to watch the scene unfold in front of him.

The woman was young, perhaps only twenty-two. She was tied to a chair, her wrists bound to the arm rests, her ankles to the chair legs. Her clothes were wet for some strange reason, and she was gasping for air.

Singer had his back to Sherlock. In his hand he held a silver-colored flask and he stood menacingly in front of the girl. "Well?" He said in a gruff voice.

The girl caught her breath and hissed out, "Screw you."

Singer then doused her with the contents of the flask. The girl screamed and writhed in the chair as her skin turned red and steam rose with a hissing noise. Was he dousing her with some kind of acid?

It didn't matter. Sherlock pulled the gun out from his waistband, straightened and pointed it at Singer's back. "Hands on your head."

Singer turned around. He stared at Sherlock, gaping at him. "First of all, who the hell are you? And secondly, that's the worst Southern accent I have ever heard."

Sherlock didn't comment, but he dropped the accent regardless. "Put the flask down, hands on your head."

"You're British? Are you-"

Sherlock fired off a warning shot. Singer flinched and Sherlock pointed the gun back to him. "I'm not going to ask again. Hands on your head."

"You're going to get us both killed," Singer hissed, but he placed the flask down, then folded his hands behind his head.

"Please!" The woman begged as Sherlock moved forward. He pushed Singer onto his knees, into a corner. "Help me!"

Sherlock pulled out a knife from his boot, and with one hand, cut through the ropes of the girl's right wrist. He gave the girl the knife to free herself, wanting to keep his eyes on Singer.

The girl cut through her ropes quickly. Once she was done, Sherlock hissed, "Get out, now." The girl was most likely going to call the police. Sherlock needed the five minute window he had here to interrogate Singer about the Winchester's whereabouts, and in turn, John's.

The girl stared up at him, frightened and confused. Was she in shock? "I said, run, you idiot-"

She blinked. Her eyes turned black.

Sherlock didn't have time to gasp in surprise as the knife was suddenly shoved in between his ribs. It was not a fatal wound, he knew that, but the sharp pain of his lung pierced was a sensation he wished to never relive again. His knees buckled beneath him.

The gun was promptly grabbed out his limp hand. The girl pointed the barrel up, shot once, splitting the wood, destroying the intricate line drawing on the ceiling.

Devil's trap, Sherlock's mind reminded him from the research he did days before. Designed to trap and hold demons.

He didn't dare pull out the knife in fear of bleeding out. Every breath he took felt like the wound was getting bigger, pain so great he could barely focus.

"Bob-by!" The girl said in a sing-song voice, stepping over Sherlock. "Where did you go?"

Sherlock blinked through the pain. Singer had disappeared from where he was kneeling.

The girl sneered from the lack of response. Without rhyme or reason, she began shooting at the walls, at the furniture, perhaps guessing where Singer was hidden. The gun clicked empty and she tossed it aside.

She looked down at where Sherlock was curled in on himself, and stepped over to him. He didn't know he'd had enough air to cry out until the knife was rudely ripped out of his side.

A hand gripped his hair tightly and the bloody knife was pressed against his neck. "Bobby!" The girl cried again, in a much more vicious tone. "If you don't come out, I'm going to gut this Brit like a fucking pig!"

The unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back was heard behind them. Sherlock twisted his head, risking nicking himself with the knife, just so he could watch as Singer pointed a pistol- Colt Paterson, 1836. – at the girl.

"Idjit," he huffed and fired.

Sherlock was grateful the girl didn't fall on him when she died. He only got a quick glance at her corpse- why were her eyes flashing like that?- before Singer rushed over, pushing Sherlock onto his back.

Singer pressed his hands down on the wound, slowing the blood flow. "What the hell did I say? I told you you were going to get yourself killed!"

Sherlock wanted to know what the hell just happened. Why did the girl's eyes turn black like that? The only explanation given was demon, demon yes, because all the information Sherlock kept finding pointed to demon. The devil's trap, the sulfur- but he was not about to entertain the notion of the supernatural. There had to be an explanation, something-

His eyes started to darken. Crap, he was dying.

Singer pulled out his mobile phone. Was he calling an ambulance? How was he going to explain the dead girl on the floor?

The person on the other line picked up. "Cas?" Bobby said urgently. "I need you here."

And that was all Sherlock heard before he blacked out.


	5. Chapter 5

When he woke, John was standing over him.

There was a fog in Sherlock's brain, graying his memories and his focus. He saw John was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and his hair was a mess. He couldn't bring himself to care about them, couldn't think past it.

He thought he was back at Baker Street. "How are you feeling?" John asked him.

"Fine," Sherlock said, and meaning it. He didn't know why he was so glad to see John. "Groggy."

"That's to be expected," John said. "Cas' finger touch tends to pack a punch."

The name 'Cas' took a few long seconds to sink it. Sherlock blinked, suddenly remembering with frightening speed. He sat up so quickly, John jumped, nearly knocking the chair he sat on over.

Sherlock immediately checked his side. His shirt was bloody and there was a large tear in the fabric, but there was no wound. He turned to John. "How-?"

"Calm down, you're going to give yourself a headache."

He couldn't calm down. He'd finally found John after nearly two months of searching and despite that, there were still more questions than answers. His mind was scrambling to put the picture together and none of the damn pieces fitted. Sherlock glanced around, confirming he was upstairs in one of Robert Singer's spare rooms.

There was a knock at the door. "John?" Came a voice from outside. The door opened a peek and Sam Winchester shyly poked his head in. "Hey, I have a few sandwiches and, uh, coffee, if you want it."

John looked at Sam, to Sherlock, then back at Sam. He sighed. "Yes, Sam, thank you."

Sam pushed opened the door with his shoulder, carrying in a tray with food.

Sam Winchester. Mother died in a fire when he was six months old. Went to Stanford University on scholarship, straight A student. Girlfriend died when apartment building caught fire. Sam disappears off the face of the map. Been accused of murder, kidnapping, and grave desecration. Declared dead by the FBI.

"Hi," Sam said, placing the tray down. He briefly wiped his hands on his jeans, then offered one to shake. "You're Sherlock, right? John's said you might find him."

Did he now? Sherlock casted a curious glance at John. He looked back at Sam.

Sam was _fucking _huge. Sherlock knew from the files the younger brother was 6'4, but the long limbs and well developed muscles made him look much bigger. He could kill a man with one hand.

Sam washed his hands recently, Sherlock could smell it. Hadn't changed out of his clothes, based off the lingering scent of sweat, and there was dirt underneath his fingernails. He'd just came back from burying the girl, Sherlock assumed. "Sam Winchester," Sherlock finally shook his hand. "Your FBI file says you're a serial killer."

Sam pulled away. He laughed rather awkwardly. "Yeah, well, it says a lot of things."

What a strange reaction to being called a serial killer.

"He's not," John insisted. "Sam, could you give us a few more minutes?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You knew I would find you?" Sherlock said once Sam left the room. "If you knew, then why did you bother to hide?"

"I didn't hide. I _left. _Big difference."

"Same question."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't you dare," Sherlock hissed. "You knew damn well I would follow. And it insults me that you actually believe I wouldn't be able to follow you."

John stared at him. He slowly cracked a smile. That was odd. "Sherlock, you… what gave it all away? What clue brought you here?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Castiel."

"Cas?"

"I saw his face, he left fingerprints on the chair downstairs. The fingerprints gave me a name, Jimmy Novak. The name Castiel gave me an alias, and with Mycroft's help-"

John snorted. "You went to Mycroft?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Once I knew you left the island, I had to get help from someone with larger resources."

"Wow… you must've really hated that."

"I did," Sherlock said snidely. "Which I feel gives me the right to do _this!"_

He slapped John across the face. And then did it again, just because one time wasn't enough.

"Fuck!" John hissed, rubbing his cheek. He groaned. "Feel better?"

"A little. Once I got Jimmy Novak's name, it led me to the Winchesters. The Winchesters led to Robert Singer. Robert Singer led me to you."

John grinned widely. "Fantastic," he said, still rubbing at his sore face. "I can't believe you tracked me across the world from using only a fingerprint."

Sherlock turned his head and tried not squirm under the warmness of the flattery. He hissed in a breath. "What the hell is going on, John? I was stabbed in the lung. I was drowning in my own blood. I should've died, and yet here I sit, with no wound to show for it. Can you explain that for me?"

John shrugged. "You were touched by an angel."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John-"

"Look," John reached over, touched him on the knee. "I know how this feels. It's all very confusing-"

Sherlock slapped his hand away. "Don't patronize me. I'm going to ask questions and you're going to answer them. No more, lying John. I'm sick of it."

John leaned back, clasped his hands together. "Alright," he said.

Sherlock hated this type of questioning. Part of the fun of deduction is using his abilities to the fullest, breaking everything down until there was nothing but hard, cold facts. But this whole situation contradicted itself, _kept _contradicting itself and now Sherlock wasn't sure he could rely on the information before him.

"How did you meet the Winchesters?"

"They saved my life," John said simply.

"When you came to America," Sherlock said. John confirmed with a nod of his head. "Not for a road trip, I double-checked. You came because you wanted to look into the medical schools they offered here. You had appointments with at least five schools. But you only made it to two."

"My God," John giggled. "It's amazing you can find information that old."

"Your sister was no help. You never told your family you were planning to study overseas."

John hissed through his teeth in frustration at the memory. "I just wanted to get away. The whole, rebellious teenager routine."

"Then you met the Winchesters on your way to your third interview."

"My car broke down in the middle of fuck-road-nowhere," John explained with no hesitation. Sherlock had thought he would have to fight John, use every single skill he had to get his flatmate to confess, but John wasn't lying to him. In fact, John seemed quite relieved to finally explain all of this. "It wasn't the car's fault, though. It was the ghost."

"Ghost," Sherlock repeated flatly.

"Yeah," John suddenly frowned at Sherlock's tone. He then rolled his eyes. "Oh for- are you telling me after everything you've seen, everything you've learned, you're still a skeptic?"

"John, I am a man of science. If you think I am going to entertain the notion of the supernatural-"

John turned his head towards the door. With a bellowing yell, he said out loud, "Cas! Could you come here for a moment?"

Sherlock, despite himself, nearly jumped a foot into the air when Castiel suddenly appeared next to John.

First there was nothing, and then there was Castiel, standing there like he had always been standing there. John gave a slight _blink _in surprise at the man's arrival, taking it in stride. He then turned towards Sherlock, raising an eyebrow in silence. _Well? _

"Hello again," Castiel said in that same deep tone. He was still wearing the same clothes he wore when Sherlock first saw him in the apartment so long ago. "John said you would find him."

"I never said-! Oh, never mind…" John waved him away, scrunching his eyes in irritation. "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel nodded his head once, then disappeared.

"Impossible," Sherlock hissed, still staring at the space where Castiel stood.

John shook his head. "Clearly possible, because you just saw it. That was an angel of the Lord."

Sherlock snapped his eyes back to John. Even now, as dumbfounded as he was, Sherlock's mind ran rampant with the information given to him. Pieces of data slotted together, gaps within the information were filled, and within a few seconds, Sherlock knew almost everything he needed to learn.

"You were attacked by a ghost," he said slowly, trying out the word. It still felt wrong. He would get over it. "The Winchesters saved you. Fascinated by what you saw, you stayed in America for two years, hunting, learning the tricks of the trade. Then you came home- you had to come home, of course you would. Being an American outlaw in America is one thing, being a British outlaw in America is another. You came home not because you miss your family, but because you still wanted to become a doctor.

"You kept in touch with the Winchesters over the years, clearly by the extended days you took every time you came back to the States for medical conferences. You stopped communication with them when you were deployed to Afghanistan; that explains the five year gap. But why the sudden reconciliation? If the _angel of the Lord _has anything to prove, it's something big. You left because you clearly do not believe you were going to come back alive. It must be the Judo-Christian apocalypse.

Well, John? Are you going to step in and tell me I'm wrong or are you just going to sit there and _stare?_"

John gaped at him.

"T-that… you…" he fumbled with his words. "You're incredible! I can't believe you can- wow!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Once I accepted what was in front of me, everything began to make sense."

"Oh my God!" John laughed, still amazed. "And here I thought I was going have to go through step by step with you."

"You may have to. There's still a great deal of information I do not have and I have many questions I want answered. But what _irritates me,_" Sherlock seethed. "Is that I have never been exposed to this before. In a city as large as London, you would think I would eventually run across a ghost or a witch or something! Why I haven't is a mystery."

"Um," John said almost sheepishly. "Sherlock, you have to understand this is not a life people come into willingly. And once you're in, you're in for the rest of your life. I tried to get out, but even when I was back in England, just trying to be another medical student, I was burning bones and killing zombies. I stayed away from my family because it was the only way I can keep them safe."

"John, I don't see-"

"We would do _anything _to keep our _families _safe. Even if it means lying to their faces."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes the emphasis. Then it clicked for him.

And suddenly he'd never felt so angry in his entire life.

_"Mycroft," _he hissed.


	6. Chapter 6

Everyone on the bottom floor raised their head to the ceiling. The voices were muted through the wood, but there was no denying the angry yells both men were throwing at each other.

There was the noise of angry feet stomping down the stairs. Dean watched as John's weird, skinny friend came into the living room. Sherlock's eyes dashed over him, Sam, and Bobby. "Where's Castiel?" he demanded.

"He's not here," Dean stood, crossing his arms across his chest. John told him Sherlock was dangerously smart, stronger than he appeared. The dude looked as if a strong enough wind could knock him over. "He's out on a mission. He may not be back for a week. What do you need him for?"

"Then do you have a mobile?"

Dean blinked at him. "A what?"

"A cell phone!"

The way this guy kept demanding stuff, Dean was going to punch him in the face. No way was he going to lend this weirdo his cell phone.

John was trying unsuccessfully to calm down. "Sherlock, it was just a theory, I don't-"

Sherlock rounded on him. "How long have you suspected, then?"

John bit down on his lip, guilty. "Almost since from the beginning."

Sherlock turned away disgusted, his attention back on Dean. "Your cell phone, give it to me."

"You forgot to say the magic word."

"Your FBI file hints you sleep with your brother."

"Oh Christ," John hissed, bowing his head and pinching his eyes.

The tiny grin Dean had on his face turned bitter. He then cracked his knuckles. "I'm going to kill your friend, John," he said as he stepped forward.

"Five dollars on Dean," Bobby whispered to Sam.

"Enough!" John stepped forward, putting himself between the two men. "Dean, sit down. Cas isn't here and I am not patching up your split knuckles. Sherlock, outside!" He didn't bother to wait for Sherlock to argue. He grabbed the taller man by the arm and roughly dragged him outside to the porch.

Once outside, Sherlock held out his hand. "Phone."

"Dammit, Sherlock," John said, reaching into his own pocket and drawing out his phone. "The next time you insult Dean, I'm just going to let him hit you."

Sherlock ignored him and started pressing in numbers.

John frowned at him. "Who are you calling?"

"Mycroft."

"That's a regular mobile, I can't get calls from outside the US-"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said into the phone, ignoring John's gaping face. "You bastard."

_"Ah," _Mycroft said calmly through the phone. _"I assume you found Dr. Watson."_

"If you knew, then why did you allow me to run this ridiculous goosechase?"

_"Perhaps we should talk about this in person."_

"I am not waiting a day for you to get over here!"

A voice popped up near them. "Nor would I think you should."

Both John and Sherlock twirled around, just in time to watch Mycroft put his mobile away in his front pocket. Anthea stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder. "Thank you," he said to her.

Anthea stepped away, then disappeared.

John groaned. "I knew it…"

Sherlock snapped the phone closed. Gripped it tightly in his fist. Mycroft ignored him in favor of looking at John. "It's good to see you again, John. I wish there was more time for formalities, but you can see… if you can excuse us for a few minutes while I talk to my brother."

"Alright," John said cautiously as he moved away. "Holler if he starts murdering you."

John left. Sherlock stared at his brother. He was so angry, he was shaking where he stood. "How long have you known?"

"About what?" Mycroft asked smoothly.

"Don't play dumb! About the supernatural! About John, about all-" he waved his hand over Singer's junk yard. "-all this!"

Mycroft didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped down from the porch and walked casually into the yard. "Walk with me, Sherlock. And I'll answer everything you want to know."

Sherlock had to fight down the urge to toss the phone at the back of his brother's head. He resisted, knowing pandering to Mycroft's dramatic flair was the only way of making him cooperate. Tucking his hands into his pockets, Sherlock caught up with his brother, glaring the whole time.

"I learned about the supernatural when I was fifteen," Mycroft began as soon as Sherlock was with him. "I've always known John was a Hunter, but I never knew he had connections to the Winchesters until he disappeared."

Sherlock sneered. "But you knew about the Winchesters."

"Of course I did. They may be human, but they're very powerful, Sherlock. I suggest keeping on their good side. Especially Dean's. He won't hesitate breaking your jaw if he sees fit."

"I'm surprised you're still so fat from the all the effort you exert to keep this hidden from me."

Mycroft doesn't take the bait. "There are a few cases that slip through my fingers, I'll admit. Luckily there are enough Hunters in London to catch them. The common cases are ghosts, the occasional shapeshifter. My focus is on demons, low-level Demi Gods, tricksters; basically any supernatural creatures with extraordinary powers."

"You would allow John to fight against them." Sherlock was getting angrier by the minute. So much knowledge, so much of the world hidden away from him, all because of his meddling older brother.

"John made his decision," Mycroft said tightly.

"And you made that decision for me!" Sherlock yelled. "You had no right-"

"Look at yourself!" Mycroft suddenly bellowed, jabbing towards Sherlock's bloody, torn shirt. "You almost died today! In this world, Sherlock, there _are_ fates worse than death, and I'll be damned if I allow your life to end the same way as Father's!"

Sherlock was struck dumb by that last sentence. "Father? What the hell do you mean?"

Mycroft turned his head away, clearly angry he had let that loose. "I guess there's no point in keeping it from you." He sighed, gritting his teeth. "When you were five, you were diagnosed with cancer-"

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, waving it away. "It went into remission. John does my checkups, he hasn't seen a trace of it."

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head sadly. "It didn't go into remission. A month after you were diagnosed, you went into a coma for a week and died shortly after."

Sherlock stepped back. A sick feeling was settling into his stomach. "What? How-"

"You've done your research, I'm sure. Have you come across mentions of Faust?"

Of course he has. In preparation of confronting the Winchesters, Sherlock had read nearly everything he could on the supernatural, to understand better why the Winchesters did what they did. Up until now, he found the whole thing very tiresome, so very pointless.

"Father sold his soul for me."

Mycroft nodded. "Now you know why he died suddenly so near your sixteenth birthday. Most contracts only get ten years and father was not the exception. Do you understand what I'm saying, little brother?" Mycroft sneered, moving forward coming into Sherlock's space. "Father is in _hell _right now. I have a goddamn _demon _as my assistant and yet there's nothing I can do to bring him back. In this world, selling your soul is as easy as buying a guitar on ebay."

"You think I would give myself up that easily?" Sherlock spat. He was trying not to think of Father. Tried not to think of fire and brimstone.

"You've overdosed three times in your life. Three times! If you treat your body in such a cavalier way, then it's safe to assume you would treat your eternal soul in the same way."

Slowly but surely the anger seeped out of Sherlock. He tried to hold on to it, keep it flaring deep inside him. "If that's what you believe, then why didn't you try to stop me from going after John?"

Mycroft laughed. Actually laughed, the fat bastard. "Like I could stop you."

Sherlock allowed himself a smile. But only a small one. "Is it true? Is the world ending?"

"I do not have connections to angels like the Winchesters do. Only demons and psychics," Mycroft said as he pulled out his mobile and entered a few numbers. "However, I have noticed the sudden increase in monster activity and natural disturbances. If anyone here has the real answer, it's with the Winchesters."

Sherlock felt his hair kick up as Anthea appeared next to Mycroft. Sherlock tried to see all that had been hidden from him, and yet no matter how hard he tried, the woman looked nothing more than a woman.

Anthea must have sensed his staring because she looked right at him. She blinked once to reveal the blackness, then blinked again, her natural browns as sharp as ever.

"If it is truly the end of the world, then I must get back to London," Mycroft sighed. Anthea placed a hand on his shoulder. "I would say be careful, but I know how much you love to go against my orders, so I'll say this instead: there's more at stake now, than your own life. Be prepared to follow something beyond you."

And without any indication to show he was finished, he and Anthea disappeared from sight. All that was left were footprints in the soil.

Sherlock stared at the empty space for a few seconds longer, then turned and walked back towards the house. The true reality of the world around him was still settling upon him, like a blanket of fresh snow. He knew he was going to have get a grip on it soon or else it could bury him.

He wasn't sure how he felt about his father's ultimate fate. Sherlock loved his father, but the man's been dead for twenty years and Hell had yet to become a real place in Sherlock's mind.

Hell was real. Angels were real. _God _was real.

If Sherlock was a lesser man, he might've been crying by now. Instead his heart thrummed loudly in chest and his fingers tingled.

So far, today has been the _best day _of Sherlock's life.

As he reached for the front door, he felt himself grinning madly.

Then a fist flew out and punched him right in the jaw. Pain exploded on the right side of his face and Sherlock fell, clutching his jaw.

Dean Winchester stepped out, shaking his hand. "_That's _for making fun of me and my brother."

On the ground, Sherlock spat out a mouthful of blood. "Noted," he said. "Are we even?"

Dean considered this. "Not even close," he said, turning back to go inside.

Sherlock touched his teeth gently with his tongue, testing if any of them were knocked loose. John stared down at him, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. "I would ask if you're okay, but something tells me you're loving every minute of this."

Sherlock smiled up at him, his teeth stained with blood.

John rolled his eyes. He reached out a hand for Sherlock to take. "C'mon. Let's get to work."


End file.
